The Sham New Tuppenny Waltz

The mafia waiters

The shoehorn marked foreign

Boxing Matilda with

Not much to go on

As Vladimir Eatwell is

Toasting the sink

I'm in t' cleavage of rain

With the boys on the brink

While def’rence presides over

The classes will clink

How plastic and trite

Sycophantic we think

As the wig n’ the gown set

Tug off their peers

We pick up our teeth from

The blood and the beer

And the man in the fox suit

Is pissing his sides

Claims corporate constructs

Do pretty our skies

Vacant in all sense that

Nobody’s home and they’re

Pointing their best points

With fingers of foam

At the bears and the bulls game

Getting pregnant with paws

But our talons lack sharpness

With no release clause

As gaffes trill’ion penny

Fly by unchecked

We’ve damp on the walls

There out of respect

As the bricks that we throw

Only ripple the pond

We still roll out the carpets for

These budget James Bonds

In make-up that’s fulsome

And grinning like plums

So declare y’self pointless

If sat on yer bums

All waving at pictures ‘cos

There isn’t no sound

For these scarves are for tying

But not that way round

As the queuers they queue

Cos that’s all they have got

And drink down the rainbow

Piss missing the pot

As the strawberries flower

In the fields of uncouth

They sew in the labels

In the clobber of youth

And toasters post toasting

Are thrown in the bath

And we all fall on someone

Under austere attack

'Cos the blisters of kickers

Are red raw like knives

And the jack boxes clever

In these times of our lives

But the circles decrease

As you get near the front

As peace passed us last week

And chinned us the brunt

‘Cos bands are tuned auto

Any fight left absconds

We despise all their success

But still sing their songs

As the bass it gets louder

And trebles come thicker

We’re freezing to death but

Still dance in our knickers

'Cos deference paid to

Is sanity lost

Your 20p sunshine

Will headline the cost

When it suits them to sell more

We’ll lap it up quick as

Incumbents get thicker

The sicker get sick as

They bruise the accused an'

Establish who’s fault

If we paint ourselves wallflower

We comply this assault

As the 45s spinning now

Fire off like Colts

We all dance the Sham

New Tuppenny Waltz

In Critical Response

In critical
Response and how
Stanisław Szukalski
The sculptor
Went full sepulchral and
Laid them all to waste.
“I’m not going to kowtow
To these phoney arbiters
Of corrupt taste.
Fartists!”    F
                          i
                               n.

The Rule in the Art World is – A Tanka

The failed artist stole
Ben Hecht’s words, proclaimed his oath:
‘You cater to the
masses or you kowtow to
the elite; you can't have both.’

Purple and Green and White - A Tanka

As he ordered the
Purple and green and white scarves
In site of the crown
Those colours the nemesis
Of the white and red somehow

B. P.

Down Bar Polski
Strong Liquor Pickles

Unbridled Nonsense - A Tanka

It hangs unbridled
Nonsense rusting there on the
Washing line of hope
Waiting for the bait on the
Misquoted coast to elope

Electrocution Lessons

She used to be confused
‘bout the bucket of used fuses
she was forced
by her form-master,
to carry on her head.

When she saw
the electric core
of his gymnasium floor;
Man! She did her homework.
Oh boy! And she read.

She was live to this earth, so
She amped up the ante;
three phased the in flagrante,
and watt smiled, as he fried,
at her plimsolls made of lead.

The Miner’s Rest

From the Miner’s Rest
Where the rays flay your
City limbs best
The swallowing view
Of grass carpets ‘neath
Rolled gold
In a sky blue suit
Our eyes march as
Penguins look on
In convivial persuit
Draw yourself a red balloon
Fill your pencil full of lead
Where troubles beware
In the vista
The glare
Replenish your luck
Duck
Where valleys
Ramble on
Churches rest
Like swans’
Songs

Day Out

The lady on
The radio
Is right pleased
With her plug

She courts this
Mass participation sport
Retail runs
A common thread to bear
In this
Fifty first
State of affairs
Effusing the illusion
That this
Is some day out

She runs coach trips
To the world’s
Largest Primark
From Doncaster
To Brum

You can bag it
For a score
Keep the receipt
In case you
Change your mind you
Can’t  bear
What we’ve
Become

Magpie Cider

Magpie Cider*

There’s the fat fruit farmer
There are fruit flies
There is fruit

Kick an apple in black and white
And unite to quarry
Branch and root

(*Serve with a variety of reformed meats)

Heated Rollers

Someone
Rumour has it
Has half-inched the ice bucket
There’ll be no oyster party
No biscotti
No coffee
Motty
Not very soothing
Is it?

Added heat

As the sheepskin preachers
Bless their balls
The treads of strippers’ slippers
Bite like summer hornets
And cornets fanfare
A bit too sharp
A bit too picky

As the farmer’s hands
Make hay with
Unseemly dreams
Of Rene stir sweet
And creamy
In cups the size of
That take the
Mickey

As the dockers ask
Stick of rock cock?
Their carved visages
Blisters on the vista
Guarding the coal shed
Double locked and
Tricky

As the haze
Glazes these chickens
Down the road
The load of the situation
Becomes like buns
Soft and
Very
Sticky